


Up The Ante

by prosciutto



Series: Sleight of Hand [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 10:22:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11378229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: It feels impossible to think of a future when they’re not running, somehow. A future where they were just Bellamy and Clarke, instead ofBellamy and Clarke,international fugitives and destroyers of diplomatic relations, one stolen tank and several wrecked cities at a time.But they’re together, still, and for as long as they are, well. Bellamy will always have hope.Bellamy, Clarke, and the life they finally get to lead after everything’s been said and done. (Or: a mini-sequel of sorts toSleight of Hand.)





	Up The Ante

**Author's Note:**

> It's probably a good idea that you read Sleight of Hand before reading this, if you're new here, but anyway! This was supposed to be a short drabble of sorts, showing life After the events of the big heist where bellarke gets to be Happy in college (as prompted by the very lovely Alice) but it sort of spiralled into a full-blown sequel instead, so... here we are.

**_Present Day_ **

**_Day (413)_ **

It’s been a long time since he’s done this, but there are some things that Bellamy’s never really lost the knack for.

Carefully, he takes aim, lining up his shot. _Arm straight, wrist loose, shoulders drawn—_ just like how Miller had taught him, all those years back.

(In the clamor of voices, he could almost believe that he was right there beside him. Head cocked, arms folded, and a hint of a smile playing on the edge of his lips. _Jesus, Blake, you gonna take the shot or what?_ )

“Asshole,” he snorts, before sending the dart flying with a flick of his wrist.

It buries itself into the center of the board to the roar of the crowd, and he barely has time to catch himself at the edge of the bar before someone is slinging an arm over his shoulders, hooting in his ear, “Holy _shit,_ dude. You sure you’ve never done this before?”

He shrugs, accepting the proffered beer. The likelihood of him getting a drink otherwise is slim to none, considering the sheer number of people gathered by the bar. “Beginner’s luck, I guess.”

The stranger opens his mouth to say something at that _;_ his response lost in the sudden commotion drifting over from the back of the room. It’s the perfect opportunity for him to slip away, really, so he does just that, weaving his way into the thick of the crowd instead.

It’s not unexpected for a pub to be crowded on a Friday night, but considering that The Dime Lions is a dingy, hole-in-the-wall a few miles out of campus, it definitely is. From what he can tell, The Cumulus Club is normally everyone else’s go-to when it comes to letting loose after finals.

Still, Bellamy can’t say he minds. Given the opportunity, he’s a big fan of watching college students attempt to deal with their various states of drunkenness with increasingly absurd methods.

… Including his girlfriend, unfortunately.

Leaning up against the wall, he has to bite back a smile at the sight of one Clarke Griffin, _shotgunning_ a beer with all the nonchalance of a seasoned pro.

(It’s been a whole year, and he hasn’t quite figured out how to look away from her just yet.)

The crowd erupts once more when she lifts the now-empty beer can over head, crushing it in her fist. She sways slightly on her feet at that, laughing, and he makes sure to keep his movements slow when he reaches for her, steadying her with a hand on her hip.

She glances over then, a warm, lazy, smile blooming on her face when she realizes it’s him. “Hey, stranger.”

“Princess,” he greets, pressing a quick kiss against her temple. “Tuckered out yet, or you think you could manage one more beer?”

Tapping at her chin, she considers this, narrowing her eyes at him. “I’m good,” she says finally, nuzzling her face into the skin of his neck, “but we should go before someone convinces me to do some tequila shots.”

“Well, we can’t have _that_ now.” He says, mock-grave, and apparently she’s not drunk enough to miss that because it earns him a swat to his shoulder, causing her to lose her footing in the process. He grabs at her waist before she can slide any further, hauling her up carefully. “You know, you’re just proving my point here, right?”

“It’s not _me,_ ” Clarke says primly, burrowing into his side when they emerge out into the open; the streets slick with sheets of ice and flurries of snow, “it’s these _damned_ shoes.”

He spares her feet a quick glance, smothering a laugh into her hair. They’re the most impractical shoes she owns, he thinks, the heel impossibly thin and high; _seconds_ away from getting caught in one of the cracks in the concrete. “What made you think these were a good idea for _this_ weather, princess?”

“It was a little hard to think past being taller than you for once, if I’m being entirely honest.”

He barks out a laugh at that, grinning, “Ambitious. Not that it worked, considering how you only come up to my ear.”

That pulls a scowl out of her and another half-hearted slap to his chest. “Close enough, _asshole_.”

“Aw, you know I love it when you talk dirty to me, princess.”

She looks like she wants to say something to that, but foregoes it in favor of twisting her fingers into the front of his shirt, nearly yanking her down with him when her shoes skid against the ice. “ _Fuck._ ”

He jerks to a halt, tightening his grip on her. “Hey. You okay?”

“Fine,” she huffs, glaring down at her the ground. “I just _—_ ugh. I _really_ hate these stupid shoes.”

“Take them off, then.”

“ _What_?”

Sighing, he drops into a half-crouch, jerking his chin over his shoulder. “C’mon. I don’t want you breaking your ankle on me.”

She practically _beams_ at that, giving a small laugh. “Really?”

“Well, before I change my mind, that is,” he points out, breaking into a laugh of his own when she scrambles onto his back, rubbing her cheek against his affectionately. Drunk Clarke is a lot more tactile than she normally is, something that he can’t bring himself to complain about.

Sliding his hands under her thighs, he straightens to his full height, making her squeal in surprise.

“ _Easy!_ ”

“You’re not even that high up, princess.”

“Sure feels like it,” she mutters, her breath warm against his jaw. Then, almost thoughtfully, “Hey. _Hey._ If I squint, I think I can see Arkadia in the distance.”

He has to force down the pang of longing that goes through him at the thought of it; of what he considered _home_ for the longest time. “We’re an entire ocean away, Clarke.”

She hums a little at that. “Do you miss it?”

The lump in his throat makes it hard to speak, but he manages, somehow. “Always,” he says thickly, turning his face slightly so he could look at her; their noses bumping. “But I would have missed you more, I think. If I _— God,_ if I had lost you _—_ I would have missed you for every single day we were apart.”

“But you didn’t,” she reminds him, smiling. “And you never will.”

He can’t help reaching forward then, pressing a small, chaste kiss on her lips despite the awkward angle. “Good.”

“Great.” She says, fingers tangling in his hair instead. He thinks he hears the frown in her voice when she asks, “When was the last time you cut _this_?”

“Around when you decided to shear your hair off on a whim.” He says dryly, reaching up to tug at her hair teasingly. “Solidarity, remember?”

“It’s too long now. I’ll cut if for you when you get back.”

“ _Not_ when you’re drunk.”

“It’ll be fine! Look. Hey, _look._ See how steady my hands are, Bell. Look!”

She keeps at it until she falls asleep, her arms locked around him in a vice grip as he tightens his grip on her _—_ and he can’t help but smile when she makes a contented noise in response, breathing him in; the sound of her deep, even breaths accompanying him the rest of the way.

 

_**Day (1)** _

In the end, the coin brings them North.

“Maybe we just have an affinity with the cold,” Clarke muses, flopping back onto the sheets. It’s one of those rare moments when she gets to set The Argent on autopilot, and she’s watching him unpack with the widest, _goofiest_ smile on her face. (It makes holding back his own a lot harder.) “You think we’ll get to see the ice caps?”

He snorts, shaking his head. “I don’t know, princess,” he says, tilting his chin in mock-contemplation, “depends on if you’ll be sick of all that snow in three weeks. What were saying, back in Ice Nation? If you had to see _one_ more icicle, you’ll _—_ ”

She gives a exaggerated groan at that, lobbing a pillow at him in retaliation. It bounces off his thigh harmlessly, landing haphazardly on the ground.

“Cute,” Bellamy says dryly, arching a brow over at her. “You know, it’s going to be a _long_ trip if you’re resorting to pillow-throwing on the first day.”

“You’re being difficult.”

“I always am,” he smirks, heaving the duffle onto the edge of the bed. From what he can tell, she didn’t pack much, just the essentials, but the sight of his weathered copy of _The Iliad_ still makes him smile anyway. His gaze slides past the array of weapons, neatly arranged, down to the slightly creased bundle of clothes and to the lone walkie-talkie resting on top of it.

He swallows, glancing up at her. “You think we should try again?”

Frowning, she props herself up on her elbows to survey the view passing before them. “Yeah,” she says, finally, biting at her lip, “before we go out of range completely.”

She’s right. He _knows_ she is, but it doesn’t keep his stomach from twisting into knots at the thought of it anyway. The last time they tried, no one had picked up on their end, and he had spent _hours_ thinking up every worst case scenario until Clarke had snapped him out of it. “You do it,” he manages, thrusting the walkie out to her.

The understanding in her gaze threatens to undo him so he looks away, feeling her fingers wind around his to _squeeze—_ assurance and comfort and love, all at once _—_ before she pulls back, twisting at the knob to turn it on.

“Raven,” she begins, her voice shaking slightly in the quiet of the room, “do you copy?”

The seconds drag on, the crackle of static growing louder with each passing minute. His pulse feels overwhelmingly loud to his own ears, drowning everything out _—_

Then the static eases, giving way to a voice. “Clarke?”

There’s a moment of breathless, bated silence as they stare at each other in disbelief before Clarke seems to come back to herself, scrambling to respond, “Raven. _Rae_ , it’s us. Are you okay? How’s _—_ how’s everyone?”

He can’t help it, an incredulous laugh escaping as she grins up at him, her eyes wet, and all he can hear amidst the roaring in his ears is that _they’re alive, they’re alive, they’re alive—_

“We’re fine,” Raven says, laughing, and the breath seems to leave him all at once at the sound, at the realization that they’re all going to be _okay_ , “sorry it took me awhile to get to you. There was a slight kerfuffle when Kane came down to the Dropship, and _—_ ”

“He _what_?”

Clarke grimaces, but doesn’t seem all that surprised, really. “I expected it. The location was blown the second he got one of the kids to be his messenger. Did he find anything?”

“Nope,” she says, popping the _p_ smugly, and he has to bite at the inside of his cheek to keep from outright _laughing_ at that, “they tore the place apart, but they couldn’t pin any of Skaikru’s activities on us. Granted, we’re going to have to be a little more careful in the coming few weeks, but Miller and Monty are on it, so we’re good.”

“They’re okay?” he breathes, almost trembling with the exhilaration of it all. “No casualties?”

“ _No,_ Bellamy.” She sighs, and it’s strange how he can feel her exasperation, even from miles and miles away. (It’s comforting to know that _that_ would never change between them, despite time and distance.) “We’re good. How about you and Clarke, huh? Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he manages, hoarse, looking over and meeting her gaze. There’s a smile playing on the edge of her lips, her expression soft and _hopeful_ and good, and he knows, he fucking _knows_ that they’re going to be more than okay, really. They’re going to _live._ “Everything’s fine on our end.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

He closes his eyes, involuntary, searching for the words to say. _Thank you_ feels too little of a sentiment with everything that they’ve done, with everything that they’ve given him. Still, he tries anyway, “You know we’ll meet again, right?”

There’s a pause, and this time when she laughs, it’s watery. “I know, okay? I _—_ I know this isn’t the end.”

“I didn’t think so, either.”

“You know where to find me,” she says, soft. “I’ll be leaving for the island in a week. And I _know_ you’ll spew all that bullshit about how it isn’t safe to come, and how visiting would _expose_ us, or whatever, but just _—_ if you need to. If you _want_ to. Come find me, okay?”

It’s hard to speak through the lump in his throat, the tears blurring his vision. “Okay.”

“Okay,” she says, and he thinks he hears the smile in her voice when she tells him, “may we meet again.”

“We will.” Clarke murmurs, just as the feed cuts out, dissolving into a wave of static.

 

_**Day (5)** _

The Argent is a small ship, so it doesn’t really dawn on him how _close_ Clarke has been keeping until a couple of days after.

(He’s not complaining, not _really_ , but he suspects that it’s been seriously hampering her ability to keep the boat afloat, considering how they’ve nearly crashed for the _sixth_ time because she was too distracted to switch out of autopilot.)

She has one hand on the wheel and the other playing idly with his hair when he decides to bring it up, pitching forward to rest his chin against the slope of her shoulder, “Hey.”

“Hey,” she parrots, absent, before leaning into him slightly, like she can’t quite help it. “You need something?”

“No,” he shrugs, pressing a chaste kiss against the shell of her ear. “Just wanted to ask you something.”

“What?”

“Does your drastically decreased ability to drive a boat have to do with your constant need to keep tabs on me?”

That pulls a scowl out of her, but she doesn’t deny it entirely either, “I’m not _keeping tabs_ on you.”

“Sure,” he laughs, muffling most of it in the tangle of her hair before she pushes him off, huffing, “oh come on, princess. I’m not saying I _mind._ I just _—_ you were hovering outside of my door during my _shower._ I’m curious.”

She keeps her gaze fixed on the horizon, jaw set, “It’s not like I have plenty of other entertainment options up here, you know,” she finally snaps, fingers tapping a furious beat against the wheel, “but sure, if it _bothers_ you so much, I’ll just figure something out.”

 _Shit._ “Hey,” he says, reaching forward to cup at her cheek, rubbing his thumb along the tense jut of her jaw, “look at me, Clarke.”

For a second, he thinks she might just ignore him altogether, but she relents eventually, sagging into his touch. “What?”

“Just,” he breathes out a faint laugh, brushing a strand of hair out of her face, “talk to me? Please?”

A beat as she seems to consider this, her expression apprehensive. Then, so softly he has to strain to hear her, “You were captured for a whole _week,_ okay? I’ve _—_ I’ve never been so afraid.” She shakes her head then, a small noise of distress escaping, and he takes her hand, weaving their fingers together, “The odds of getting you out were slim,” she continues, dropping her gaze to her lap, “and it’s just _—_ I have trouble believing it, sometimes. That we made it out. That you’re here with me, holding my hand.”

It’s a feeling that he’s all too familiar with; one that he feels on the edge of sleep, trailing after his nightmares. He’d wake up and be right back where he was, shackled and bound, breathing hard in the half-darkness of his cell.

But then he would feel her shift sleepily in his arms, or catch a glimpse of gold flitting through his vision, and he’d _remember,_ somehow. Maybe it was because there was never any sun, back in his cell, or warmth, either. And as long as he had both _—_ as long as he had _Clarke—_ he knew that everything about the moment was real.

“I’m here,” he rasps, sliding his arms around her, feeling her shudder against him as she muffles a cry into his shirt, “I’m _here_ , Clarke. This is real, okay? And I’m not going anywhere.”

She sniffs, then, burying her face deeper into his neck. “Good.”

He can’t help but grin a little at the petulant note in her voice, the way she still has one hand perched on the wheel, as if that would make a _difference,_ somehow. “You know, you’re going to be so sick of me by the end of this, princess.”

That pulls an actual, full-blown _laugh_ out of her as she pulls away, wiping at her face. “Maybe,” she agrees, shrugging. “But at least I have you.”

“You have me,” he nods, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss against the tip of her nose, easing down to her mouth. “You’ll _always_ have me.”

She closes her eyes at that, as if revelling in his words. When her eyelids flutter open, her mouth is quirked up into a small, crooked smile. “Just let me get used to that, okay?”

He returns the smile, tracing the curve of her neck with his thumb, reaching down to squeeze at her shoulder, “Take all the time you need, princess.”

 

_**Day (17)** _

They’ve been sailing for two whole weeks before he finally convinces her that they could do with a stop-over.

(“We need to get a crew,” Clarke mumbles, letting him bear her weight as he half-drags, half-carries her up to their motel room.

“I _helped_.”

The look she shoots him is distinctly venomous.)

Still, she seems to be feeling a lot more well-rested after a few days, considering how _she’s_ the one insisting on going to see the sights.

“Of all the places,” Bellamy grumbles, heaving himself up another boulder, “you decide that climbing a literal _mountain_ is the way to go?”

She makes a noise of assent at that, unapologetic, before reaching over to swipe at the water canteen hooked onto his pack. “We’re in _Bluecliff,_ Bell. The entire town was named after this landmark, and you want to skip it?”

“It’s a 7 mile walk to the top. Of course I want to skip it.”

“We could have rented a car,” she reminds him, panting slightly, “but _someone_ was paranoid about leaving a paper trail. Despite the fact that Monty made us new, completely _unrecognizable_ IDs _—_ ”

“I didn’t say that we shouldn’t get a car.”

Her expression would be comical if he still had it in him to laugh, really. (Fuck, he’s _exhausted._ ) “We passed the car rental place _miles_ back,” she hisses, throwing her hands up, “so unless you’ve suddenly developed powers of _apparition—_ ”

“No, but there’s another car rental place right here,” he frowns, jerking his chin at the long line of vehicles snaking down the edge of the path, parked haphazardly on the grass and wheels caked with dirt. “C’mon princess,” he grins, at her scandalized expression, “you can have your pick. Which one do you like?”

“You can’t be serious,” she says, disbelieving, but trails after him anyway, “do you even know how to pick a _car_ lock?”

He lopes forward, inspecting the selection before them before jerking to a stop at a slightly worn SUV. _Perfect._ “Miller taught me the basics, remember? And Raven taught me how to hotwire a car.” Circling it, he walks over to the passenger side, peering through the window. “I just need something small and sharp, and _—_ ”

 _Preferably cylindrical,_ he doesn’t get to say, before there’s a rock _smashing_ through the driver’s side.

For a second, all he can do is stare _—_ watching as Clarke reaches in, unlocking the car door fluidly.

Then, brushing the shards off the seat with all the ease of someone who has done it numerous times before, she settles into the car, tossing her hair back behind her shoulder. “You coming?”

(He forgets, sometimes, that his girlfriend is the most ruthless _badass_ he knows.)

“Yeah, yeah.” Bellamy manages, biting back a smile as he throws the door open, “Wait up, Bonnie.”

In the end, he winds up driving because it’s the kind of car that comes with a stick shift, and it’s one of the _few_ things that Clarke hasn’t mastered just yet.

“You know, it’s ironic that you know how to sail, play croquet _and_ kill a man six different ways to Sunday but remain blissfully unaware when it comes to driving stick, right?” he grins, leaning over to tug at the braid hanging over her shoulder, “I mean, I’m _sure_ there were a fair share of chauffeurs in the Griffin mansion, but _—_ ”

“You’re not forgetting the part where I know how to kill a man six different ways to Sunday, right?” she cuts in, flashing him a saccharine sweet smile.

“Yeah, but I taught you five out of six of them.” He reminds her, the rest of his response dissolving into a yelp when she reaches over to prod at him, her fingers mean against his ribs, “ _Hey._ Cut it out, Clarke. I’m _driving_.”

She sniffs at that, prim, “It’s not like you’re doing all that great of a job anyway.”

“Says the person who doesn’t know how to drive stick.”

Her hands flit over to his thigh, sudden, and he sucks in a quick breath when she starts to massage at the tense quad, “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” she says, in a voice a tad too innocent for his liking, and he thinks he dies a small death _right_ there when she turns her palm over, grazing at him lightly, “why, is something wrong?”

“ _Jesus,_ Clarke.”

The look she shoots him is distinctly devious, her gaze pointedly drifting down to his crotch. “I’m just learning how to drive stick, _Bell_ ,” she says, with a little smirk, “seems pretty easy, so far.”

He huffs, clenching his jaw. “I hate you.”

She makes a sympathetic noise at that, drawing her hand away slightly, and he can’t tell if the noise that slips out of him then is one of frustration or relief.

( _Frustration_ , he decides, half a second later, watching her trace idle patterns on his thigh, always skirting away from where he wants it. _Fucking tease_.)

“You doing okay?” she asks, and he can practically _hear_ the grin in her voice, at this point.

“Fine.” He grounds out, fixing his gaze resolutely on the roads before him. He will _not_ look at her. He will _not—_

Then her fingers are wrapping around him, _squeezing,_ and he slams down so hard on the brakes that the wheels practically _shriek_ in protest, jerking to a stop.

There’s a moment of breathless, appalled silence when they’re just _looking_ at each other before she breaks, bursting into peals of laughter while he groans, dropping his head on the steering wheel.

“Please,” he tells her, once they’ve calmed down enough to get back on the road, “ _stop_ flirting with me when I’m driving, okay, princess?”

She’s shaking her head, but she’s smiling so big that it’s possible to see it from miles away, probably. “I can’t believe I nearly drove you to commit vehicular _manslaughter_.”

“There wasn’t anyone on the road!”

“ _Luckily_.”

“We’re already committing grand theft auto today.” He says, hitting the blinker and pulling into the lot. It’s mercifully empty, and he suspects that a majority of the visitors had opted to stay closer to the bottom rings then come up to the peak. It’s not hard to see why, considering the sheer rock face and the bitterly cold wind, “so let’s keep the criminal charges to the minimum, okay? Not when we’re up this high.”

That gets her attention at least, and he thinks that all of it is worth it just to see her that expression on her face _—_ eyes widening in wonder, lips parted.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, reverent.

“Yeah. It kind of is.”

She doesn’t take her eyes off the view when she tells him, wry, “You have to be actually _looking_ at it to say that, Bell.”

“I am,” he manages, soft. Her cheeks flood with color, at that, and he ducks his chin to keep her from seeing his huge, _stupid_ grin. “C’mon. I brought a blanket.”

He gets out first, dropping the tailgate and spreading a blanket over it. They don’t have pillows (she didn’t think it’d be smart to grab the ones they had off the boat) so he fluffs up their packs instead, rearranging them as Clarke clambers on, yanking the gate shut.

“This is nice,” she says, forgoing her pack entirely to snuggle up into him, laying her head on his chest. “You think we can see the stars from here when it gets dark?”

“Probably,” he yawns, before stretching his arm out to grab at the sketchbook he stashed in his pack, along with a set of charcoal. “Here.”

She glances up at him, surprise evident. “Really?”

“You’re telling me you don’t want to commemorate this?”

“I do,” she laughs, butting her head against his shoulder, “but you’re going to be _bored._ Tell me you brought a book, at least.”

“Nah,” he mumbles, tilting his head back to feel the rays of the sun against his skin, eyes fluttering shut, “go crazy, princess. I’m good.”

He thinks he feels her fingers stroking through his hair once before he’s drifting off, the sun burning weakly against his eyelids.

 

_**Day (17.5)** _

It’s dark by the time he gets up, with Clarke half-sprawled on top of him and her sketchbook nowhere in sight.

“Hey,” he manages woozily, his voice scratchy to his own ears, “how long was I out?”

“A few hours,” she shrugs, pulling at the neckline of his shirt to kiss at his shoulder, the dip of his collarbone. “Welcome back.”

“Warm welcome,” he rumbles, running his fingers through her hair. She’s warm and soft on top of him, and the stars are out, and he thinks he might never want to leave, at this rate. “What did I miss?”

She gives a noncommittal hum at that, sliding down to press a light kiss at his sternum, his ribs. “Nothing much. I drew the mountains, sketched out some of the constellations.”

His breath hitches when she bites at his navel, fingers working at his belt. “Really, princess?” he laughs, letting his head thump back against the blankets, “You wanna do this out here?”

“I’m just finishing what I started.” She grins, before leaning over to wrap her mouth around him with no fanfare whatsoever. He groans, fingers scrabbling in the blanket to ground himself, and there’s not much talking after that, really, except for the occasional curse word or moan.

He returns the favor, after, and she rides him in the driver’s seat once it gets too cold to stay out (not that inside is much better, considering the broken window.) It’s sloppy and messy and _fun,_ and he laughs when she slams down on the horn mid-orgasm, startling her enough that she nearly falls over.

The drive back down is quiet. Comfortable. He makes sure to park the car where he left it, slips three hundred dollars onto the dashboard for good measure.

“A hundred should cover the cost of the window,” Clarke says, reaching out to loop the other end of the blanket around his shoulders as they trudge down the worn path, all the way back down to the bottom.

“I know,” he grins, pulling her close to press a kiss against her hair, “the other two hundred is just because.”

 

_**Day (42)** _

They settle down in Ravka, a little further south than they expected. (And warmer, too.)

Or, well, as settled as they can get with The Argent docked and their bags still packed, at least.

It’s a small town, but within walking distance to the city, and he likes that they’re right by the ocean. Their apartment is directly above a second-hand bookstore (“Convenient,” Clarke remarks, when he insists that this is the _most_ ideal location there is) and he helps out there, from time to time. Clarke paints, mostly, and sells some of her pieces during weekend markets.

It’s _nice._ Easy. Bellamy wouldn’t change a thing about it.

Well, except for the one _tiny_ detail that won’t stop niggling at him.

“I need you to talk me down from something,” he begins, easing the door shut behind him. It’s a Friday afternoon, which means that she’s in her makeshift studio, working on something for the weekend. “And let me just preface this by saying that it’s the _stupidest_ idea I’ve had in a long time. So, you know. Judging from my track record, I think you recognize the gravity of this here.”

That gets her to look up at least, paintbrush still dangling from her fingers, “Should I be worried?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Well, considering how prone to dramatics you are, I’ll say that I’ll be the judge of that.” She says dryly, pointedly avoiding the wounded look he sends her way, “Alright, lay it on me.”

He wets his lips surreptitiously, steeling himself. “You know how I’ve been heading out to the city to collect some shipments lately, right?”

“From the numerous of complaints you’ve made about the traffic there, I’d have to say yes, I _do_ know.”

“Smartass,” he can’t help but add, before continuing, “anyway. The route always takes me through the main city square.”

She narrows her eyes over at him, chin tilted in confusion, “Okay?”

“Through the main city square,” he pauses, taking a deep breath, “and past Kerch College.”

A beat as she seems to process this, fingers drumming out a irregular beat on her thigh. “Okay.”

“ _Okay?_ ” he blurts, barking out a sharp laugh. “ _Clarke._ That’s _—_ it’s stupid, right? It’s too much of a risk. It’s _—_ completely crazy. I’d be jeopardizing our safety, our _livelihoods—_ ”

Her gaze seems to soften imperceptibly at that, and the words die in his throat at the look she gives him, chastising and fond all at once, “It’s not stupid, Bell.”

“It’s reckless.”

“That’s the point, right?” she says, gentle, “That’s the whole point to this. We get to live how we _want_ to live.”

He groans, rubbing at his face. He sees the truth in her words, he _does,_ but there’s a large part of him that can’t help fixating on everything that _could_ go wrong, on everything that _could_ happen because of his own selfishness.

(He’s still adapting to the realization that he could _want_ things now, without consideration for anything else. _Anyone_ else. Well, except for Clarke, really, and they’re on the same page for most things.)

“I get it, I do, but _—_ ”

“No but’s,” she interrupts, getting to her feet fluidly and dusting her hands off, “butts are for slapping, Bellamy Blake.”

“ _Clarke._ ”

She draws up to him, tipping his chin up with her fingers so he’s looking right at her. “Hey,” she murmurs, tapping at his jaw lightly. The smile on her face is so incredibly soft that he melts a little under it, under the realization that he’s one of the few people who has been able to witness it, “You want to go, right?”

He releases a breath, sagging slightly into her touch, “Yeah. I really do.”

“Okay.” She says, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Then we’re going.”

“Hold on,” he frowns, watching as she peels off her paint-covered smock, shaking out her hair from its messy bun, “there’s a lot of things we need to think about, first. Admission, for one, and admission fees, and majors _—_ ”

“I have it covered.”

“How _—_ ” he stops, taking in her devious expression, the way she’s shouldering their emergency pack _—_ filled with essentials and everything they could possibly need for a fast getaway _—_ “Clarke, _no._ We’re not contacting Monty for this. It’s not safe.”

She makes a face, rifling through the pack, “A five second call isn’t going to do much harm, Bellamy. It’s a burner phone.”

“ _Still._ ”

“I’m going to handle it,” she assures him, beaming as she strides out of the door, phone clamped to her ear and shoulders squared; bearing the eerie resemblance of a general marching to war. “Hey, why don’t you work on our new personas? I’ll let you pick my name, if you want.”

He gives another long, drawn-out groan at that, letting his head fall back against the wall. “Jesus, Clarke.”

“Just no mythological references!” she calls out, her lilting laugh drifting through the corridor, filling his chest with something akin to light.

(He could get used to this, really.)

 

**_Day (45)_ **

It’s not like he has ever _doubted_ Monty (or his superior hacking skills) but the arrival of their admission letters still manages to take him off guard.

“Told you,” Clarke says, smug, propping her chin up against his shoulder. “And just in time for the new semester, too.”

He makes a agreeable noise, reaching over with his free hand to tangle his fingers in her hair absently, “I just _—_ I feel bad. Those funds were meant for Skaikru.”

“Which _you_ earned,” she reminds him, soft. “And it’s not like you left them unprepared, either. There’s more than sufficient funds to keep them running for years.”

“Monty told you that?”

She shakes her head, “Raven, when we were plotting your big rescue mission.” A small smile crosses her face, then, the expression almost wry, and he can’t help but grin at it, at the thought of their demons weighing less at them than before, “She assured me to spare no expense. I think she just really wanted to get a bazooka, though.”

“Typical.” He smiles, before directing his attention back to the letter. “And hey, we’re roommates too. Coincidental, huh?”

“The best,” she agrees, grinning, sliding her hand over his to pull the sheet closer. “I really think Tris,” she pauses, eyes narrowing as her gaze slides over the rest of the words, brow furrowing, “ _—_ and _Ben_ might really grow to like each other.”

It takes a considerable amount of effort to keep from smirking at her quizzical glance, the distinctly suspicious way she’s regarding him. “What?” he asks, working to keep his voice as nonchalant as possible.

“These are normal sounding names.”

“ _You’re_ the one who said no mythological references.”

“Since when do you listen to me?”

He shrugs, feigning a exaggerated yawn, “Since now, I guess.”

She purses her lips at that, narrowing her eyes _—_

“Tris is short for Beatrice, by the way,” he offers, the corners of his mouth twitching when it finally seems to all _click_ for her, her mouth dropping open to gape _—_

“Oh my fucking god,” she breathes, groaning, “you’re _such_ a fucking nerd, Bellamy Blake.”

“You didn’t say no Shakespeare references.”

“... You’re lucky I love you.”

 

_**Day (80)** _

Kerch smells overwhelmingly of saltwater, and wet sand, and strangely enough, _wax._

“We slather our surfboards with it,” Lincoln _—_ their R.A. and tour guide _—_ explains, gesturing out to the ocean sprawled out before them. Then, with a rueful grin, “Surfing is one of those things that everyone here picks up on at some point, you know?”

“No,” Clarke mumbles under her breath, and he has to bite at the inside of his cheek to swallow back a laugh. Their days spent out at sea has _really_ done a number on her.

Still, he hears her breath catch when they draw up to the edge of the cliff; the sun glinting off the myriad of boats slicing through the impossibly blue waters.

It’s _beautiful._ (And theirs, for the next few years.)

He reaches out to take her hand, squeezing. Her palm is warm and dry and _familiar_ , and he thinks he could spend the rest of his life just like this, holding her hand and memorizing the weight of it in his.

“First day of the next venture in our lives, princess,” he grins, turning over to look at her. “You ready for it?”

She tilts her face up to the sun, her smile fucking _blinding_ under it, “More than ever, Bell.”

 

_**Day (80.5)** _

Of all the things that he had worried about when it came to college, _unpacking_ hadn’t been one of them.

And yet, _here_ they are, arguing over the merits of taking in the couch that Clarke had found abandoned by the first floor stairwell.

“No,” he says firmly, taking in the stuffing half-hanging out by the side, the floral print that she insists is ‘ _retro_ ’ ( _atrocious_ seems like a lot more of a accurate definition, to be exact), “no fucking way, princess. We’re not bringing that monstrosity into our room.”

The indignant sputtering she makes in response would actually be comical, if he could actually summon the urge to find anything funny anymore. “We need a place to sit, Bellamy,” she demands, with a pointed arch of her brow “it’s a essential.”

“That’s what the rug is for.”

“The rug is to keep all that crap off our floors.”

He rubs at his face then, groaning. It doesn’t help that they’ve been at this for _hours,_ bickering and yelling over everything _—_ from mattress placement to wardrobe space to what they should do about the moldy mini-fridge they found languishing under the desk.

“Look,” Bellamy says finally, kicking at its sagging armrest, “that _thing_ can’t even fit through the doorway, okay? There’s no place for it.”

She purses her lips at that, folding her arms across her chest. Then, decisively, “It’ll fit fine as long as we turn it on its side and lift it.”

“And place it where now?” he huffs, rucking his fingers through his hair frustratedly. “We can’t walk around the room as it is without bumping into a canvas or a fucking _end table._ ”

It’s the wrong thing to say, evidently, if the look in her eyes is any indication. “You’re one to talk, considering I can’t walk _anywhere_ without tripping over a stack of books,” she counters, seething, “who needs _three_ copies of Sense and Sensibility?”

“They’re first edition!”

“They’re the _exact_ same book!”

“That _you_ bought for me, I’d like to add.”

The sound that escapes from her is half incredulous, half exasperation. “That’s not _—_ forget it.” She turns her face away then, jaw clenched, “I’m going to go get some air.”

“Fine by me.” He snaps, spinning on his heel and marching through the door of their too-small, overcrowded room. A part of him is almost tempted to slam the door shut for emphasis, but it feels way too petty, even for him.

The anger stays with him as he unpacks the rest of their things, stowing their emergency packs under their pushed-together beds and stashing a few knives at certain points of the room.

Most of it dissipates sometime around dinner, though, her continued absence niggling at him even after a shower.

Sure, he’s gotten into his fair share of fights with Clarke, but never like _this._ Never about something so small and inconsequential. They never had the opportunity to, never could think beyond anything else but staying alive, and staying on their feet.

(The thought of it makes him smile, despite himself.)

Sighing, he twists at the door knob, propping it open with one of her too-big, thrift store boots (“they’re _comfortable_ ,” she had insisted, after he caught her tripping over her feet one too many times) before lugging the couch in, positioning it haphazardly by the small slice of space by the window.

 _There_.

He flops back onto the sheets, bringing his arm up over his eyes. The room feels eerily quiet without the sound of her soft, even snores, the light patter of her feet dancing across the room. She was always springing out of bed for one reason or the other _—_ forgetting to turn off the kettle, for one, or needing to squeeze in a quick sketch before bed _—_ and listening to her bustle around The Argent or their apartment always filled him with a kind of calm. It was like knowing all the steps to a dance that only they knew, and the silence made him feel strangely off-kilter, somehow.

Bellamy’s not sure how much time has passed by the time he wakes, but it’s dark outside by the time he jerks out of his fitful stupor, and there’s a weight on his chest that’s making it hard to breathe.

Blinking, he squints into the half-dark, careful not to dislodge her from her perch. “Clarke?”

“Hey,” she says, soft, biting at her lip apprehensively. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s hard to believe that when you’re practically on top of me,” he teases, reaching over to flick at her forehead gently. She makes a face, but doesn’t squirm away. “What are you doing up here?”

She sits up, pressing a hand against his chest to keep from falling over. “I just,” she shrugs, playing with the stray thread hanging from his sheet, “I needed a hug.” She says, her voice wobbling slightly, “But you were asleep, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

He nods, contemplative. “Because you think I’m mad at you?”

“Aren’t you?”

A beat as he pretends to consider it, her face anxious _—_

Then he reaches up from behind him, grabbing at his pillow and lobbing it over, right _smack_ against her face.

Clarke squeaks at that, surprised, and he bursts into laughter, grabbing at her waist and pulling her down with him. They collapse together in a tangle of limbs and hair, and she smacks at his shoulder when he groans with it, crushing her closer to him.

“Okay,” he manages, breathless, “I’m not mad anymore.”

She huffs, slapping at his shoulder before sliding off him, pressing up into his side instead. “Neither am I.”

“Good.”

“Good,” she smiles, burying her face into his shoulder as he cards his fingers through her hair. Then, a little sheepishly, “You brought the couch in.”

He snorts, nudging at her side gently, “We’re getting a new set of covers for it.”

“Done.”

“ _And_ I’m sewing it up before someone sits on it and it _explodes_ everywhere.”

She props her chin up against his shoulder, grinning, “You’re so _considerate,_ Bellamy Blake.”

“Oh shut up,” he huffs, pulling the sheets over them and turning over to spoon her, draping his arm possessively over her waist. She gives a impatient _tsk_ at that, but he thinks he senses her smile when she lays her hand over his, twining their fingers together.

 

_**Day (81)** _

Bellamy’s not sure _what_ possessed him into signing up for 8am classes _—_ but the next thing he knows, it’s Monday morning, and he has a Roman Literature lecture to be at in ten minutes.

Swearing softly under his breath, he extricates himself out of Clarke’s hold, grabbing at the crumpled heap of clothes by the floor. If he forgoes coffee, he might _just_ be able to make it in time.

He’s wrangling his shirt over his head when he feels her stir, the sheets rustling as she sits up, pressing a kiss against his shoulder blade. “G’morning.”

“Hey,” he smiles, turning over to give her a quick, chaste kiss. She’s always adorably dishevelled in the morning _—_ hair rumpled and grit caught in her lashes _—_ and a small part of him is almost tempted to stay right where he is; to go back to sleep with her tucked in his arms. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmurs instead, stroking at her hair, “it’s way too early.”

“I’ve noticed,” she says sleepily, her eyes fluttering shut as she leans into his touch, seeking affection. He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, already attuned to her cues, dragging his thumb down to rub soothingly at the spot by her neck. “But I wanted to catch you before you headed off to class.”

“That feels like a lot to ask of yourself, princess.”

She scowls at that, sliding out of his grip fluidly, “You know, I was _just_ about to give you a welcome-to-college present, but I think I changed my mind.”

He can’t help his grin, reaching forward to poke her in the ribs, “A present? Really?”

“Well, you’re not getting it _now_.”

“C’mon, princess,” he laughs, thrumming his fingers against her sides and making her giggle, lurching to the side to evade him, “I’m _dying_ of anticipation here. And you’re making me miss my class, _and—_ ”

“Fine,” she relents, reaching past him to grapple for something by the nightstand before hiding it behind her back. “Close your eyes.”

He gives a dramatic, drawn-out sigh, but does what she tells him anyway.

A beat before he feels something cold against his face, resting against the bridge of his nose. He blinks his eyes open, drawing back instinctively at the weight, how everything seems to come into a new sort of focus _—_

“Makes you look distinguished,” Clarke grins, hands coming up to straighten the glasses perched on his nose, “I had Raven make it before we left. Maybe not the most accurate considering she just took a guess with the numbers, but I think it’ll work just fine.”

“Huh,” he manages, getting to his feet and crossing the room towards the mirror. They’re… _nice,_ if he’s being entirely honest. A little similar to the ones he had donned as a disguise the last time he had been to Arkadia College. “You think it suits me?”

That pulls a breathless laugh out of her, arms winding around his shoulders as she pops onto her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Makes you look like the big ol’ nerd that you really are,” she says fondly, patting at the stubble lining his jaw, “coupled with _this,_ and you could pass off as a completely different person.”

“One who appreciates the hipster hobo look, I take it,” he says, mock-grave, kissing at her fingers lightly before ducking out of the circle of her arms. “Alright, I _really_ have to be going now.”

She hums her acknowledgment at that, flopping onto the bed and snuggling back into the sheets, “Go get ‘em, nerd.”

“You too, princess.”

“I will, but at a _respectable_ hour.”

He can’t help his snort at that one, darting out of the room and easing the door shut behind him. (He’s definitely going to be late _now,_ but it’s worth it, really.)

It takes him fifteen minutes to brush his teeth, another five to find his lecture hall. Thankfully, they’re still going through introductions, so he manages to slip in mostly undetected, exchanging a brief nod of acknowledgement to the person on his right. Up front, the professor is distributing the reading lists for the semester, the air filling with the frantic sound of people tapping at their keyboards as he boots up the lecture.

It’s exactly how he imagined it would be.

Biting back a smile, he takes a copy of the reading list, tilting back in his chair to listen.

 

_**Day (168)** _

The thing is, it’s not like Bellamy’s all that much well known beyond Arkadian borders.

It’s not unusual, considering how no one likes to admit that Arkadia _has_ a criminal underbelly in the first place. Tensions between the bigger cities and factions are high enough as it is, and freely providing ammunition to others is a surefire way to lose the game.

Or at least, that was what he _assumed,_ until Kane issued a statewide arrest order for them.

“Unbelievable,” he says darkly, staring down at their wanted posters. Monty had been thorough in wiping their online records (and the Griffins only took family photos up to when Clarke turned seven) so Kane had resorted to a sketch artist. There’s something off about his nose, and Clarke’s eyes are a little misaligned, but it’s _them,_ alright.

“You’re telling me,” Clarke mutters, scoffing. “How is it you’re worth thirty thousand more?”

“Well, I’m thinking it has to do with me blowing up an embassy, once.”

“That was _you_?”

“Raven misfired,” he says, giving a impatient wave of his hand, “no one was hurt. Can we go back to focusing on how your step dad just put a price on our heads? ”

She manages a grim shake of her head at that, lips pursing together, “I can’t say I’m surprised, really. That guy holds grudges like a motherfucker.”

He groans, leaning back in his chair and rubbing at his temples. “All of this, and for what?” he bites out, barking out a harsh laugh, “To salvage his wounded pride?”

“I think you’re forgetting the part when I told you that he’s a pious, overzealous _prick._ ”

“There’s that,” he mutters, slumping over when he feels her hands working at his shoulders, the motion soothing. “ _Jesus_. And here I thought we’d be able to ride this out in Kerch for the next few years.”

It’s impossible to miss her disapproval with the way she’s frowning at him, but he tries anyway. “We don’t _have_ to leave,” she insists, stepping forward and into his space entirely, making her impossible to ignore. Then, leaning forward, she grabs at the posters they’d pilfered from the common area hours back, “Just _— look_ , okay? I know it sounds farfetched, but the resemblance between the people in the poster and us? It’s thin. There’s _some_ resemblance here and there, but not much. Not _really._ ”

She’s right on that count, at least. These past few months of wandering had led to the both of them losing some weight, and with the addition of his glasses and beard, he’s practically unrecognizable. Clarke’s grown out her hair, started wearing it a little differently, and it’d probably be impossible to notice the similarities unless someone was looking closely.

Sighing, he relents, burying his face against the crook of her neck instead, “It’s never going to be easy for us, is it?”

“That’s half the fun,” she murmurs, teasing, her fingers rising up to work on the knots along his neck. “And think about it,” she adds, grinning, “we’ll have a hell of a story to tell the nurses by the time we get checked into a retirement home.”

“We’re _not_ ending up in a retirement home.”

She raises her brows over at him, her expression scathing, “Well, _I’m_ not going to be the one spoon-feeding you your raisin pudding when we’re both old and grey.”

“Aw,” he beams, clutching at his chest mockingly, “you know, that’s what I love best about you, princess. You say the _sweetest_ things. In fact, I’m putting this on a fridge magnet for our sixtieth.”

“God,” she huffs, rolling her eyes, “I can’t believe I love you, sometimes.”

(And he’s not keeping track, not _exactly,_ but he thinks it might be the first time she’s said it like _this._ Effortless. Nonchalant. A fact, more than anything.)

The thought of it makes him smile, wide and stupid, before reaching out to seize at her waist and haul her onto his lap, “It’s a blessing and a curse, princess,” he says, sighing exaggeratedly as she lies back into his arms, fitting against him perfectly _—_ and it’s _easy,_ after that, to put the whole matter out of his head entirely.

 

_**Day (200)** _

Well, until he meets John Murphy, that is.

It’s ironic, really, because Bellamy’s pretty sure that if he had known Murphy under any other sort of circumstances, he could maybe even grow to _like_ the guy. He’s astute. Smart. _Way_ too observant for his liking, though, and considering how he seems to be hell-bent on uncovering everything they have worked for in the past few months? That makes him dangerous.

The inquisition begins two weeks after the posters go up, in the one class they share together.

(Criminology, of all things. Someone up there must have a really warped sense of humor.)

“So, _Ben_ ,” he starts, conversational, as if they haven’t just spent the last twenty minutes staring each other down, “where are you from?”

He manages a noncommittal hum in response, though he doesn’t quite manage to temper the edge in his voice, “You sure you want to start a discussion on heritage now _,_ Murphy?”

That pulls a impatient huff out of him. “I don’t mean what _are_ you _,_ Ben,” he says, tapping his nail against the tabletop as if for emphasis, _completely_ oblivious to his simmering anger (Bellamy immediately dismisses the thought of growing to like him in the first place), “I meant _where_ you’re from. In the _literal_ sense.” A beat as he seems to size him up, then, almost too casually, “I grew up in Kerch, and I’ve never seen the likes of you around here.”

“It’s because I’m not from Kerch,” he says, flat, yanking at his pen cap with his teeth. “I grew up in Scythia.” It’s true, strangely enough. There wasn’t any harm in disclosing that, considering how it was a little known fact even to his friends back in Arkadia. Besides, some truths always made a lie more convincing, anyway. “A small fishing village,” he adds, brusque, “you wouldn’t know of it.”

“Why Kerch, then?”

“Why _not_ Kerch?” he counters, feigning obliviousness. He can’t help but feel a little smug at the obvious frustration flitting across Murphy’s face, though, the way his fingers clench into tight fists, “It’s one of the best schools in the area.”

A beat before he seems to compose himself, his expression smoothing into one of casual nonchalance. “Yeah, but with your grades? You could be going to those big schools,” he says, mocking, twirling a pencil between his fingers, “I bet all the ivy leagues back south would rip themselves apart to get to you.”

It’s an effort to keep himself from reaching out to punch him square in his calculative, reptilian face, but Bellamy resists, somehow. “I like it here just fine.”

“I can see why,” Murphy replies, weighing a heavy stare on him, half-lidded and predatory and _hungry,_ if anything, “nothing happens over here in Kerch. It must have been chaotic where you’re from, for you to enjoy the quiet here.”

He meets his gaze then, makes sure to hold it for a extra few minutes. A blatant refusal to be intimidated, to back down. “I think plenty happens in Kerch,” he manages in a perfectly pleasant voice, tilting his chin up in challenge, “you just need to know where to look.”

“And _you_ do?”

It’s been a long time since he felt the need for it, but he feels his lips curl up into that instinctive, practiced smile anyway _—_ the one he used as silvertongue, sharp and feral, “Perhaps.”

That, at least, gets him to shrink back just a little. Long enough for someone else to intervene, Clarke flopping onto his lap with all the practiced grace and ease of someone who’s done it a million times before. “Hey babe,” she smiles, looping her arms around his shoulders, “you done?”

“Just about.” He shrugs, chancing a surreptitious peek over at Murphy. He’s already looking away, interest clearly lost, and he can’t help but feel a vindictive spike of pleasure at that. _Good._ “Let’s go.”

She waits until they’re back in their room before she rounds on him, brows furrowed and jaw clenched, “What was _that_ about?”

“Nothing,” he says, frowning. “Well, _yet,_ at least. He’s suspicious, but I’m pretty sure that’s all he has of now: suspicions.”

All the breath seems to leave her at once as she deflates, sagging against him and letting him bear her weight, “Thank god.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, dragging his hands down to rub soothingly at her back, “we’re going to have to be careful, though. Murphy’s tricky, and I know for a fact that he’ll do just about anything for some cash.”

She shakes her head at that, groaning. “So, the worst kind.”

“The worst,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to her hair. Then, mostly because it’s the truth, he adds, soft, “But it’s nothing we can’t handle, princess.”

He senses rather than sees her smile this time, her fingers curling into the front of his shirt to pull him closer before she speaks, “Yeah. Nothing we can’t handle.”

 

_**Day (242)** _

It’s not like Bellamy means to make a habit of jumping off moving boats, but it’s pretty much the _third_ time that this has happened.

He pushes to the surface, sputtering and grasping wildly at the water, “Clarke?”

There’s a moment of utter, blind panic when he can’t seem to find her; nothing but the sheer vastness of the ocean surrounding him before she emerges, hair plastered to her face and gasping for breath.

“Hey,” he says roughly, reaching for her, “you okay?”

“Peachy,” she manages through a mouthful of chattering teeth, “or, you know. As peachy as I can get with the threat of hypothermia hanging over our heads.”

A smile rises to his lips, unbidden. “Nice to see that your sense of humor is still intact considering we just lost our ship _and_ our belongings.”

She manages a small, shaky laugh at that. “But we kept our limbs,” she teases, her hand slicing through the water to splash at him, making him yelp, “though that might change if we don’t get out of the water soon. C’mon.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” he grumbles, kicking his legs steadily through the waves.

They’re not far from land, thankfully, and she gives a little shout of joy as they stumble onto the sand, collapsing on their backs. The night air is cool against his skin, making him shiver, and he pulls half-heartedly at his wet clothes, groaning. “Fucking _Murphy_.”

“Murphy,” she says grimly, scowling as she props herself up on his elbows. “Can’t say I’m surprised that he sold us out.”

“To be fair, we _did_ threaten him.”

“Doesn’t mean that he should have called the guard on us,” she grumbles, staggering to her feet. “Let’s go. We have to find some shelter before it gets too dark.”

The nonchalance of her statement makes him laugh, somehow, a little hysterical to his own ears. Maybe it’s the shock of the icy cold water to his system, or maybe it’s the all-consuming relief of knowing that she’s by his side, still. (It’s hard to worry about anything else when he has her, really.) “God,” he laughs, nudging at her ribs, “look at you. I think I may have corrupted you entirely.”

The noise she makes is distinctly indignant. “I could always hold my own, _thank you_.”

“I’m talking about your recent rash of criminal tendencies, princess.”

She actually _preens_ a little at that, which makes him laugh harder, catching at her hand to kiss at her fingers sloppily before winding them together.

“Can’t help that I’m a natural,” she declares airily, tugging him forward. “We should head East. According to the map, there’s some whaling camps up ahead.”

“You managed to grab _that_ but not the rest of our weapons?”

That pulls a snort out of her. “Condolences for your tragic love affair with your _rifle_.”

“For the _last_ time, her name is Hestia.”

“I’m not calling it that.”

They bicker all the way to the campsite, finding a small, deserted cabin which Clarke picks the locks for. (She’s getting surprisingly good at it, and he finds himself filing that away for Miller; to be brought up if they were ever to meet again.)

She gets a fire started while he gathers the pelts, uncovering a packet of jerky and a few bottles of water in the process. Cracking the seal of one of them, he hands the bottle over before stripping out of his sodden clothes, toeing his boots off carefully.

It’s impossible to miss the way her gaze trails him; lingering on the vee of his hips, the curve of his ass. Biting back a smile, he pretends not to notice, busies himself with rolling out the rest of the pelts. It seems to annoy her, at any rate, but he relents when he catches her staring for the fifth time.

“See something you like, princess?” he rasps out, working to keep his voice casual.

She flushes, but holds her ground. “No,” she says primly, sliding out of her underwear with a deliberate sway of her hips that makes him choke on his breath, “hand over the jerky, will you?”

“If that’s what you really want,” he says blandly, tossing her the pack before sliding into one of the pelts. It smells musty and a little bit like piss, but he can’t help but relax in its warmth anyway. Feigning a exaggerated yawn, he closes his eyes, pressing closer to the fire. “I’m going to sleep.”

“You don’t want some?”

He grins at the small hitch in her voice, burying his face deeper into the furs. “I’m good.”

There’s a lengthy pause at that, and just when he thinks she might _actually_ be serious, she wiggles into his cocoon of make-shift blankets, pushing her hips back into him deliberately.

He shifts to accommodate her, throwing an arm over her middle and letting it skirt over her navel, barely _grazing_ it across the juncture of her thighs; her sharp intake of breath only serving to make his grin grow wider. “I thought you said you were hungry, princess,” he says, in the most innocent voice he can muster.

She gives a impatient huff at that, reaching back to kick at his ankle. “I didn’t mean for the _jerky,_ you asshole.”

“Well, all you had to do was _ask_ ,” he manages, smug, earning him a light smack to his shoulder before he’s sliding further underneath the sheets, settling in the cradle of her hips.

(They warm up in no time, after that.)

 

_**Day (243)** _

The realization that they have nowhere else to go only sinks in for him the next morning _—_ a water-soaked map laid out before them and still half-swaddled in a variety of pelts and furs.

“We should head East,” Clarke nods, her fingers trailing assuredly through a unseen path, “towards Vallahan. The nearest port is a few miles away, and we’ll be able to reach it in a day or so if we go by foot. Once we get a boat, we can be there in two weeks.”

It’s a sound plan. A _decent_ one, at any rate, but Bellamy can’t help but worry all the same. Vallahan was one of the biggest cities, which meant more witnesses that could potentially implicate them, along with a guard that would be a lot more easily deployable (and well trained) than Kerch’s own force.

(Still, he will admit that the thought of being in a wide, sprawling city was appealing. He liked learning one inside out; turning it over in his hands until he knew every nook and cranny, every escape route. It took a infinite amount of patience to learn one as he had learned Arkadia, but he liked the thrill of it anyway.)

“Maybe,” he hedges, frowning. “Logically, we should head West instead. It’s quieter, and we can hide out in the mountainous areas until all the excitement dies down.”

She cocks a brow over at him _—_ her expression half exasperated, half skeptical, “You know I’m more inclined to believe in the possibility of a meteor striking Kane’s townhouse rather than all of _this_ blowing over, right?”

“Touché.”

“It’s a distant dream,” she sighs, hitching her knees up to her chest. Then, with a mischevious smile, “I think counting on him to fall asleep in his tub and spontaneously drowning is a lot more of realistic, don’t you think?”

He snorts, dipping his chin to nuzzle at the side of her face with his beard, making her giggle, “Sure, that sounds highly plausible.”

“It is, for him.”

“And yet you couldn’t have told me this crucial piece of information when he had us at the docks?” he says, mock-solemn, giving a disappointed shake of his head, “Amateur move, princess.”

She makes a face at that, grimacing, “You’re telling me that your master plan would have been to give _Marcus Kane_ a bubble bath?”

“I’ll have you know that I had some pretty great bath salts imported in from Ravka that would have worked. They’re _lavender_.”

A smile twitches at her lips then, the expression sliding off her face just as quickly as she sobers, biting at her lip. “I’m going to miss it,” she admits, quiet. “Kerch, that is. I liked waking up to the smell of the ocean.”

The raw _want_ in her voice makes him ache, somehow _—_ a reminder of what they had, before it all went to shit. “There was the herring, too,” he manages, smiling. “It was some _fucking_ good fish.”

That gets her to laugh, at least, the sound watery but steady. “I think I’ll miss Lincoln most.” She muses, leaning into him. “I’m pretty sure he had us figured two months back, you know? But he just stayed quiet.”

“He’s one of the good ones,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I liked that girl in your freehand drawing class, too. Nyssa?”

“Niylah.” She says, wry, before finally uncurling herself from him to pull on her clothes. “I never told you, but she flirted with me incessantly until she figured we were together.”

It’s impossible to focus on what she’s saying when she’s standing stark naked by the window, half-illuminated by the weak rays of the slowly rising sun; his mouth going dry at the curve of her hips as she slides her pants on, the sway of her breasts. “Can’t say I blame her,” he says, hoarse.

“Perv,” she smirks, before lobbing his shirt over. “Now, put on some clothes. We have places to be.”

Instinctively, he glances over to the map sprawled beneath them, the edges curling slightly from the heat of the small fire they’ve built. “To Vallahan?”

She pauses at the hesitance in his voice, shirt half over her head, “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Not _exactly,_ ” he shrugs, stepping into his pants in one fluid motion. “Though I’ll admit that I’m confused at your adamance to go there, actually.”

“Oh.”

“What,” he teases, drawing up to her, “you’re not even going to deny it?”

It’s vain, perhaps, but he can’t help feeling a little smug at how her gaze drops down to his bare chest, flicking up to his arms before she seems to pull herself together. “Put on a shirt and I’ll tell you,” she huffs, flicking at her hair so he gets a mouthful of it as she turns away, yanking on her clothes with more vigor than before.

Biting back a laugh, he shimmies his shirt on, waiting until she’s fully dressed before turning back to face her once more. “Alright, princess,” he says, brow arched, “wanna share with the rest of the class?”

Her throat bobs as she swallows audibly, steeling herself. Then, a little apprehensively, “Two reasons, okay? First is that I know the lay of the land. My father conducted business there all the time, and I used to follow him out there when I was a kid. I’m a little fuzzy on the details, but I remember _most_ of it. Makes Vallahan seem a lot more approachable than anywhere else.”

Well, he understands sentimentality, if nothing else. “And what’s the second reason?” he prompts.

“School,” she says simply, crossing her arms over her chest. “The one in Vallahan is a _ivy league_ , for that matter, and I may have gotten Monty to pull some strings the last time we were applying for Kerch.”

He gapes, a strangled, incredulous escaping before he can help himself, “You _what_?”

“It’s a golden rule to any heist,” she grins, clearly more than a little pleased with herself, “make sure you have some failsafes in place. You taught me that, remember?”

“So, _that_ means _—_ ”

“It means that there’s a small scattering of colleges that we can go to, whenever we want.” She tells him, and the softness in her voice is what unravels him, really, makes him go a little weak in the knees, “It means that no matter how far we have to run, and wherever we have to go _—_ we get to do it all while trying to live the lives we always wanted. Getting a college degree, for one,” she laughs, twining their fingers together, “or maybe just job prospects that don’t involve scaling down a seven story building.”

He lets out a deep, shuddering breath at that, tries to speak through the sudden lump in his throat. He has never doubted the lengths that they would go to for each other, but this feels _special,_ somehow. Her way of making sure that he would never miss out on the things that he had so badly wanted before Octavia’s arrival. Everything he never got to have to keep everyone else alive.

“Hey,” he croaks out, leaning forward to press their foreheads together; craving the kind of closeness and intimacy that he’s only ever had with her. “Thank you.”

She makes a nonchalant noise at the back of her throat, pecking at his lips chastely. “Don’t go thinking this is all about you, now,” she says, teasing. “I don’t know if anyone has ever told you this, but artists get to up their rates when they have a shiny college degree to go along with their work.”

“That must be it,” he murmurs, closing his eyes; the sunlight finally streaming through the windows and turning everything gold.

 

_**Day (312)** _

They arrive at Vallahan two weeks before the new school semester.

There’s money in the bank waiting for them (courtesy of Monty) along with an apartment a few streets down from campus. It’s about the size of a shoebox, which Clarke insists is _humongous_ for Vallahan standards _—_ and they spend their first few days filling it up with a mishmash of furniture and pieces that they salvaged from the streets.

They only start _really_ exploring on the fifth day, losing themselves in a labyrinth of side-streets and alleyways; a pistol tucked into his boot and a sketchbook under her arm as she carefully maps out the city with strokes of charcoal.

“There used to be a candy store right here,” she says, adjusting at the pair of sunglasses perched on her nose, “I used to sneak over whenever my dad’s meetings went on for too long.”

Bellamy stares up at the peeling exterior of the storefront _—_ now a _laundromat_ , of all things. The sign is weathered by age and hanging crookedly on one end _,_ seconds away from crumbling into dust entirely. “When was that, again?”

“I was eight, maybe?” she frowns, slashing at the marked ‘ _candy store_ ’ on her sketch in a single, fluid stroke, “It drove my dad crazy, even though his office was only a block away. Apparently it gets dark pretty early in the day, and he didn’t want me out on the streets when it did.”

The longing in her voice is evident. _Wistful._ He reaches for her instinctively at it, tugging at her braid playfully, “You know, I wish I could say I was _surprised_ by your rebellious tendencies princess,” he says, giving a exaggerated, drawn-out sigh, “but you once put a _rock_ through a car window, so.”

That gets her to roll her eyes, at least, her expression morphing into one of disgruntlement. “Only because you had no idea how to pick a car lock.”

“I was _getting_ to it.”

She pats at his shoulder, then, the motion pitying. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He mutters, slinging an arm over her shoulders as she breaks into a walk once more. She’s relaxed, somewhat, and he gives it a few more minutes of easy, comfortable silence before he asks, gentle, “You want to go look? See if his office is still there?”

It’s not like she _tenses_ , or anything, but it’s a near thing. He watches her jaw clench and unclench for a solid minute before she speaks, the words measured and even rolling off her tongue, “Not today.”

“Okay.” He shrugs, and he thinks he hear her sigh of relief as she leans into him, trusting him to keep her upright as they amble further through the streets, delving deeper and deeper into the heart of the city. It’s impossible to keep up the thicker the crowd gets, so they give up on their map in favor of dinner instead.

“You can be in charge of dinner,” Clarke announces, once she spots the line to the poffertjes that they’ve been angling to _try_ for days, now, “I’ll do dessert.”

He shoots her the most withering look he can muster under the circumstances. “The poffertjes _are_ dessert.”

“There’s no real system to food, Bell.” She tells him, stern, before leaning over to give him a smacking kiss to his cheek, practically _beaming_ , “So, get the box of twelve, okay? I’ll get the pizza and see you back in the apartment.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a goddamn pain in the ass?”

She flashes him a quizzical look at that, already backing up into the crowd, “What?”

“I know you heard me,” he gets out, and he thinks he catches a fleeting glimpse of her bright, incandescent grin before she melts into the crowd entirely.

“Damn it, princess.” He mutters, biting at the inside of his cheek to quell the _stupid_ smile twitching at his lips.

It takes a whole forty-five minutes to get to the head of the queue, _and_ another five to get their order, so he’s sweaty and _cranky_ by the time he arrives at the doorway to their apartment. Clarke’s too-big boots are already lined up neatly by the shoe rack, and he scowls over at them as he toes off his own.

“Princess?” he calls out, easing the door shut behind him. There’s a few boxes of takeout by the couch, and her keys have been abandoned by the kitchen countertop, but there’s no sign of her anywhere.

He’s reaching for his phone when hears a muffled shout drifting over the bathroom, and then he’s practically _sprinting_ over, gun drawn and heart in his throat _—_

Only to find her standing by the mirror, her fingers stained red.

“Jesus,” he swears, raking his gaze over her form, checking for injuries, “what happened? Are you hurt? Did _—_ ”

“I’m _fine,_ ” she says quickly, managing a reassuring smile. “It’s not _—_ it’s _dye,_ Bell.”

He blinks, takes a second to really _look_ at her _—_ at her hair now grazing at the edges of her shoulder, the bursts of red tangling in her hair and dripping onto her sweatshirt.

“It’s patchy,” he informs her, grimacing a little. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I _like_ it, but _—”_

“I know,” she interrupts, wincing. “It’s choppy and the dye’s not even and it’s a _mess,_ hence my distressed yelping, okay?”

He sighs, pulling closer so he can assess the damage, running his fingers through the stiff locks consideringly. “Well, you made a mess of things,” he points out, tugging at a uneven chunk of hair teasingly, “but nothing I can’t fix.”

“Thank god,” she mutters, before tilting her chin up, giving him the most beseeching look known to man. “Work your magic?”

“Only because you asked so nicely,” he says, turning her to face the mirror once more. “Can I ask what prompted this recent and very rash life choice, though?”

“You’re ninety-five percent of my impulse control, and said impulse control was off buying _poffertjes_ when I suddenly thought red hair would be like, the _coolest_ thing ever.”

He snorts, dodging neatly out of the way when she attempts to stomp on his foot in retaliation. “Alright princess, my bad,” he grins, pressing a quick kiss to her temple, stained red and smelling faintly of ammonia, “I’ll never leave your side again. Promise.”

(He’s only half joking, really.)

 

_**Day (312.5)** _

(Her hair ends up a little shorter than expected, but he manages to get most of the red out, leaving a few streaks in for the _badass_ factor _—_ her words, not his _—_ so when she insists on cutting his hair after, he lets her.

It’s the shortest his hair has ever been, and he mourns for the next few days before Clarke punches in the arm, telling him to quote unquote, _get over himself_ before she finally placates him with a library card and a fresh box of poffertjes.)

 

_**Day (365)** _

After close to a year of cohabitation, Bellamy would like to think that he has witnessed the full spectrum when it comes to Clarke Griffin.

There’s Clarke in the mornings, for one; grouchier than most, incoherent without her requisite cup of coffee. Clarke, when she’s upset; quiet and closed off, eyes glazed and staring blankly at some point he can’t seem to reach. Clarke, when she’s _ecstatic_ ; lilting laugh and smile bright and _touching_ , always touching him _—_ trailing light and warmth and making it easy to see why Icarus had risked it all just to feel the sun’s heat against his skin.

He’s learnt to recognize each one of them; to grasp the distinctions in her mood in a single crinkle of her brow, the clench of her jaw _—_ and it’s become second nature, at this point, for them to have entire conversations without having to say a single word.

(It still surprises him, sometimes, that someone would _want_ him. In all his pieces and fragments; through every dark thought and every impulsive, reckless decision. His hands were stained red, but so were hers, and while they could never wipe the slate clean, they could damn well _try_ to be better people than they were before _—_ bloodied hands clasped and the weight of the world on their backs.)

So, suffice to say, he’s a little caught off guard at the emergence of another side to her; one that he never had the opportunity to witness before _—_ _Sick_ Clarke.

Or to be more specific, bedridden, wearing the same sweatshirt for _three days in a row,_ Clarke.

“Jesus,” he breathes, staring down at the carnage before him. The floor is a mess of wilted tissues, blankets, and pizza boxes _—_ _and_ there’s a smear of green on the edge of his favorite afghan, currently draped over the prone form lying in the middle of their living room. “Clarke?”

No response.

Carefully, he picks his way through the mess, a swear escaping when he stubs his toe against a half-abandoned box of chamomile tea. “Princess?” he tries, working to keep his voice soothing, “you know, you’re really starting to scare me here.”

That, finally, prompts a grunt on her part, which he can’t help feeling a little relieved by. “I’m _fine,_ ” she declares then, positively _mullish_ as she hunches further down into his afghan. “Leave me alone.”

It takes a significant amount of willpower to keep from bursting into laughter at that as he draws up in front of her, taking her in. She’s a _mess_ , face flushed and wispy blonde hairs plastered to her forehead, half-lying on a canvas smudged beyond repair. He _really_ doesn’t have the heart to tell her that salvaging it is going to a futile attempt, really.

Dropping to his knees, he turns her on her back gently, extricating the paintbrush from her death grip. “Hey, princess,” he grins, pushing her hair out of her face, “you look good.”

“Fuck you.”

“Well, fuck you too.” He says, mild, a snort escaping as she turns away, muttering incoherently under her breath. He had assumed that her string of strange behavior over the past two days was finals related stress, but it’s clear to see now that they had been symptoms of the flu.

Sighing, he slides an arm under her knees, lifting her, “C’mon, princess. Shower.”

She squeaks at the motion, indignant, “No!”

“You _smell,_ princess. Trust me, you want a shower.”

“What I _want_ ,” she huffs, swatting ineffectually at his bicep, “is to get my pieces done before my art show. Which you’re _not_ helping me with.”

He makes a sympathetic noise at that, hitching her higher in his arms before nudging at the faucet with his hip, filling the tub with water, “There’s still a week to go, princess. That’s more than enough time.”

“It’s not,” she counters, exhaling shakily as she buries her face into his shoulder, “and all my pieces are _crap._ We should have started with the basic courses instead of getting Monty to transfer our course credits.”

“That’s an extra two years, princess.”

“Well, it’s not like we have anywhere else to be,” she sniffs, petulant, clinging onto him harder when he attempts to set her down. “Just _— please,_ Bell. I don’t have time for this.”

He runs his palm soothingly down her back, feeling her relax under his touch before he slides down to the ground, perching her onto his lap, “I know, I know,” he murmurs, stroking at her spine, “but you need this, okay? You need to feel better before you can focus on your art.”

A faint tremor runs through her body as he lifts her shirt over her head, undressing her carefully. She doesn’t fight him, though, lets him ease her down into the warm water without complaint.

He’s grabbing at the bottles of shampoo and soap when she grabs at his wrist, tugging him closer. “Don’t go.”

“Not planning on it, princess.” He tells her, twisting at the knob of the shower head so the water comes out in a slow, even stream, “You want me to do your back first?”

She looks up at him from between a fan of dark lashes, considering. Then, stubbornly, “C’mere.”

“I _am_ here.”

“ _Here_ ,” she insists, yanking at his shirt sleeve, and it dawns on him that she means _in_ the water a split second too late, his arm already half-submerged and his shirt _soaked_ from the struggle.

“Just _,_ ” he sighs, backing up slightly to pull his shirt over his head, followed by his pants, “give me a sec, okay?”

Still, he doesn’t miss the appreciative once-over she gives him as he sinks down into the tub behind her, pulling her flush into his arms. “No funny business,” he says warningly, though he can’t help his grin when she squeezes at his thigh, affectionate, “ _just_ a bath, Griffin. You got that?”

“Aye aye, captain.”

“I _mean_ it. You’re a hotbed of bacteria and viral infections, as of now.”

“But you still find me cute, right?”

He shakes at his head, rueful, before carding his fingers through her lank, unwashed hair. “Adorable.”

It takes a whole forty minutes to get her clean, distractions aside, and he bundles her up in one of his sweatshirts after, inhaling in her warm, clean scent before he deposits her onto their bed, pulling their sheets up to her neck.

She nuzzles her face into his pillow then, muttering under her breath, and he has to suppress a smile at her possessive grip on it. “Comfy, princess?” he teases, setting a glass of water onto the nightstand.

“Mmm,” she mumbles, tilting her face up slightly. “Hey. _Hey,_ Bell.”

“What?”

Her eyelids are fluttering, a clear attempt to stay awake when she tells him, soft, “I want _—_ I want to see it. His office.”

The plea in her voice makes his chest go tight, his throat swelling with emotion as he leans forward instinctively, pressing a reassuring kiss in the space between her brows. “Sure thing, princess. When you’re better, okay?”

“Okay.” She murmurs, and he thinks he catches a smile flitting across her face before her breaths even out, her face still half-pressed into his pillow.

 

_**Day (368)** _

Her fever breaks on the third day, just as he’s brewing her a fresh batch of tea.

Bellamy’s not sure what tips him off to her presence, but he’s reaching for the sugar jar when he feels it _—_ her gaze lingering against the planes of his back, the curve of his shoulder. It feels _loaded_ , somehow, but not in the way which leads to urgent, strained sex up against the wall. This feels like she’s just… looking. Taking him in. Everything about it soft and hazy and _warm,_ above all.

He opens his mouth, a witty remark already springing to his tongue when he feels her arms winding around his waist, her cheek pressing up in between his shoulderblades. “Hey,” she whispers, her fingers tracing absent patterns on his stomach. “How’s your morning going?”

“Good,” he says, shifting slightly so he could turn over and look at her. “Great, actually, considering that you’re out of bed. How are you holding up?”

That pulls a faint smile out of her before she’s going up on her toes, kissing at the back of his neck. “I feel like death warmed over,” she rasps, shaking her head, “but yeah, I have to say that it’s a vast improvement from the last few days.”

He nods, rubbing at her knuckles in silent agreement before diverting his focus back to the kettle, “It’s the wonders of a hot bath and countless cups of tea, princess.”

“I think it’s a more of _you_ thing, actually.” She teases, poking at his ribs. He squirms away from her prying fingers, scowling, and he can feel her laugh coursing through her body as he swivels on his heel, her arms looping around his neck smoothly. Then, immeasurably soft, she tells him, “You’re always taking care of me.”

(His cheeks heat at that, instantaneous. It’s one of those things that are so _ingrained_ within him that it feels strange to be bringing it up. He’s been taking care of people all his life, to the point where it feels expected of him _—_ so for someone to acknowledge it, let alone _thank_ him for it makes him feel a little off-balance, somehow.)

He ducks his chin to hide the flush, closing his eyes as he mumbles, “You take care of me, too.”

“Yeah,” she says simply, her hand coming up to stroke at the redness staining his cheeks, “because that’s who are we to each other. But, _still_. I want to thank you for it, okay? I know it wasn’t easy.”

He pulls a face, tilting his head mock-contemplatively, “It was… _alright_ , I guess.”

“I was a menace. Don’t even try to deny it.”

“Eh.”

“Fine, play dumb.” She sighs, butting her forehead against his shoulder. The motion is familiar, but the crack in her voice when she finally speaks isn’t, “You know that I love you, right?”

The sudden hitch in her breath gives him pause, pulling away slightly to look at her. Her eyes are wet, and there’s a kind of emotion behind it that he can’t seem to place, enough for him to start _panicking_ , a little. “Hey,” he murmurs, frowning, “ _hey._ Of course I know. Where’s this coming from, Clarke?”

“Nothing,” she laughs, the sound watery as she wipes at her eyes, “I just _—_ I wanted to remind you, I guess. I want you to remind you of it for the rest of _—_ well, for every single day that we’re together, at least.”

The sentiment behind her words makes him smile, broad and _unrestrained_ as he envelopes her in his arms once more. She sinks into it, sniffing, and he can’t help but poke at her ribs this time, grinning, “ _Someone_ sure could use a stiff drink, huh?”

“... I hate you.”

“We’ll celebrate at the end of the semester,” he manages _—_ through the sound of his pulse beating so rapidly in his ears that it threatens to deafen him, through the emotions clogging in his throat that tastes of gratitude and sincerity and _everything_ he has ever felt for her _—_ “and, princess?”

“What?”

“I love you too.”

 

_**Day (413)** _

(“You’re kidding, right?”

He can practically see her brows lifting up to her hairline at his hesitance _—_ his gaze roving from the cracked windows to the broken boxes littering the pavement to the neon sign of The Dime Lions flashing faintly in the night.

“What are you,” she taunts, grabbing ahold of his fingers, “scared?”

“Only for my liver.” He mutters, shooting a disdainful look over at the rows of dusty bottles by the back of the room before she’s pulling him in, her laughter ringing in his ears.)

 

_**Day (414)** _

He wakes to the sensation of fingers carding through his hair, a low voice humming by his ear.

(It is, by far, the best thing to wake up to.)

“Well, this is a surprise,” he murmurs, cracking an eyelid open. It’s practically unheard of for Clarke to be up earlier than he is _—_ and on the rare occasion that she is, she tends to coax him awake almost immediately after _—_ either with coffee or deep, hungry kisses that usually lead to a pretty spectacular round of sex. “You watching me sleep, princess?”

She snorts, scooting down carefully so that they’re face to face, barely any space left between them. “You do it more than I do, you _creep_.”

“Most of the time I’m just checking out your boobs, really. You’re the one who’s just staring at my face.”

“Well, it _is_ a pretty one,” she agrees, tipping forward slightly to bump her nose against his, affectionate. “G’morning.”

He hums in response, pressing a quick kiss against her lips. “It always is, with you.”

“Flatterer.”

“Not if it’s the truth,” he points out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. It gets her to smile, but something about it feels off, somehow. She’s biting at her lip, hands clasped over her stomach almost like in prayer, and it makes him press closer, nudging at her gently. “Wanna tell me why you’re up?” he asks, soft.

She makes a face at that, her thumb still making soft, absent revolutions over his knuckles. Then, shrugging, “Anyone ever tell you about how _loud_ you snore?”

It’s clearly not what she wanted to say, but he nods anyway, mock-solemn. “That’s how you wanna play it, princess?”

“I’m _—_ ”

The rest of her response trails off into a delighted shriek as he grabs at her waist, tickling at her ribs relentlessly until she throws her hands up in surrender. “Okay, _okay._ Oh my God, Bellamy.”

He laughs, caging her in with his hips before swooping down to kiss at her cheek. “You concede?”

“Fine,” she huffs, flicking at the dimple by his chin petulantly. “There’s something on the nightstand for you.”

“Is that supposed to be a innuendo, or is there really something for me on the nightstand?”

That pulls a impatient noise out of her before she’s rolling out of his grasp, swiping at the opened envelope on the table. “Here you go, you big _baby._ ”

He means to say something to that, but the retort dies on his lips at the sight of the familiar seal, the messy scrawl. “Is that _—_ is it Raven?”

She nods, plucking the envelope from his grip and sliding the contents onto his lap. “Snail mail, of all things. It must have pained her to even _write_ it.”

“It’s better than all those encoded emails she sent us,” he reminds her, snorting. Still, he can’t help but smile at the scrap of paper on his lap, smeared with ink and grease and _god_ knows what. Correspondence with the rest was near to impossible with the amount of risk it entailed, but he knew that Raven was the safest option of them all.

Lifting the photo clipped to the top of the letter, he studies it, taking in the sight of her and Luna, arms around one another, Roan peeking out from a cabin in the background.

A place to stay. A place to call _theirs_.

There’s a lengthy beat, and he reaches for her just as she leans into him, pressing her chin against his shoulder. When she finally speaks, it’s wistful. “You think we’ll get that, someday?”

(It feels impossible to think of a future when they’re not running, somehow. A future where they were just Bellamy and Clarke, instead of _Bellamy_ and _Clarke,_ international fugitives and destroyers of diplomatic relations, one stolen tank and several wrecked cities at a time.

But they’re together _,_ still, and for as long as they are, well. Bellamy will always have hope.)

“Damn right we will,” he tells her, sliding his hand forward and pushing their fingers together.

A moment of hesitation before she’s lacing his hand in hers too, squeezing. “Damn right we will,” she echoes, fierce, and the promise in her voice makes him smile.

 

_**Day (475)** _

They’ve explored most of Vallahan by the time winter fully rolls around, bringing along with it snow and bitterly cold winds that Bellamy is _less_ than pleased about.

“Remind you of anything?” Clarke asks, blinking up at him with an expression _way_ too innocent for his liking. He manages a scowl, and she jostles at his shoulder in retaliation, laughing.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he grumbles, hoisting their numerous shopping bags higher up against his shoulder. They’re three days away from Christmas, and Clarke’s insisting on pulling out all the stops: presents, a tree, and a _turkey,_ of all things.

“Oh come on, it wasn’t _that_ bad. We traumatized Miller that night, remember?”

“We’ve traumatized every single one of the crew, at one point,” he replies, dry, slinging an possessive arm over her shoulders. Another laugh, this time loud enough for people to look, and he smiles a little to himself when he feels her turns her head over to kiss at the curve of his thumb. “Remember when Raven _nearly_ walked in on us making out on the deck?”

She shakes her head, grinning, “Not as bad as when Monty started _banging_ on the bathroom door because he _needed_ to pee, and we were both in there _—_ ”

“ _—_ Jesus. We need to stop having shower sex. My ass has never been the same _—_ ”

“ _—_ and remember when he insisted that it was nothing he hadn’t seen before, and he asked Miller to pick the door’s lock?” She groans, burying her face into his neck. “I threw on my clothes _soaking_ wet. It was humiliating.”

He can’t help his chuckle at that, pressing a kiss to the jut of her cheekbone. “Well, at least we were saved by Miller’s inept flirting.”

“You’re one to talk, mister.”

“Wish I knew what you’re talking about,” he says, frowning with feigned confusion as she flicks at his forehead, snorting. “Seriously, though,” he laughs, squeezing at her hip, “do you remember how _embarrassing_ Miller used to get around him?”

Her response is lost in the sudden pang of longing that courses through him, sharp and lingering. The ache has eased, somewhat, in the past few months, but there are days when it still feels like someone running salt along the edges of a slow-healing wound, somehow.

Taking a deep breath, he composes himself, pushing aside the fear bubbling up within him _—_ of forgetting the cadences of Raven’s laugh, or the curve of Monty’s smile, or the easy glide of Miller’s fingers, slipping into a pair of leather gloves.

Something must have shown on his face, still, because the next thing he knows, Clarke’s curling her hand over his, weaving their fingers together. He closes his eyes at her touch, instinctive, trusting her to bear his weight if only for a moment; trusting her to keep him on his feet.

“Hey,” she says, soft, pecking at his cheek lightly, “know what we need?”

He manages a small smile, just for her. “What?”

“Fairy lights.”

“Didn’t we _already_ buy a whole bunch of those lights for you to string over the tree?”

She makes a offended noise, narrowing her eyes over at him. “Those are _Christmas_ lights, Bell. There’s a _difference,_ and you know it.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re just different colors,” he points out, raising his hands up in mock surrender when that earns him a withering glare in response, “but you’re the boss, princess. You wanna hit the store up on fifth or the one on eighth?”

She mulls that over, biting at her lip. “Eighth,” she says finally, shrugging, “we can get ice cream after, and maybe _—_ ”

The words die in her throat, faltering as she jerks to a sudden stop, nearly sending him crashing into her. He blinks, following her gaze up high, landing on _—_

 _Oh._ Bellamy wets his lips, swallowing, and this time, it’s his turn to hold her up, squeezing at her hand reassuringly. “Do you want to go look?” he rasps, grateful for the steadiness of his voice despite the worry edging at his thoughts, weighing at his lungs.

She gives a brittle laugh at that, tightening her grip on him. “I don’t _—_ I don’t know,” she says, apprehensive. It’s not something he’s used to hearing, coming from her, and it makes his heart clench involuntarily in his chest. “I shouldn’t, right? It’s not like there’s anything waiting for me, up there.”

“You don’t know that.” He says, gentle, grasping at her shoulders lightly. “Hey. _Hey._ Whatever you decide on, just know that I’m with you, okay? Every step of the way, Clarke.”

That seems to snap her out of her haze, at least _—_ the same thing he had told her a year back, on the precipice of something great and _new_ and terrifying, all at once.

He never went back on his promise, then. He’s not planning on starting now.

Another long, agonizing minute before she nods, the motion so quick he nearly misses it entirely. Carefully, he reaches out, pressing his thumb against the corner of her quivering lip and holding it steady. “You got this,” he murmurs, before dropping his hand to tangle their fingers together once more.

They mount the steps to the building, beginning the slow, arduous climb to the top. The steps are slick with snow, a thin, rusted rail the only thing preventing them from plunging off the edge, and it takes almost all of his willpower to keep from looking down as they heave themselves up floor after floor.

Clarke’s panting slightly by the time they pull up to the door, but he suspects that it has to do with how high up they are than anything else. “You good?” he manages, turning over to face her.

“I’m fine.” She says, quiet, sliding a few bobby pins from her hair to work at the locked door. The hinges of it are rusted, the paint faded; everything about the space reminding him of something left out in the sun for too long to dry.

It doesn’t take her long; just another five minutes before he’s easing the door open carefully, stepping past the threshold.

The first thing he notices is the dust _—_ how it seems to coats everything in the room, motes swirling in the air at their disturbance. His gaze roves over to the pictures tacked to the noticeboard, most of them yellowing with age, and finally, to the high shelves towering over everything else, lined with ledgers and boxes, all neatly labelled and preserved.

 _A tomb,_ he thinks to himself, and it’s impossible to keep the grimace from showing when he turns on his heel to look at her, cocking his chin in question.

She’s already distracted, thankfully, slipping out of his grasp to reach for the photos fluttering in the breeze. “I’m _—_ ” she shakes her head, as if to clear it, gaze still fixated on the image of her father, arms around what must be a six year old Clarke, “give me a minute, okay?”

“Take your time.” He murmurs, grazing at her elbow in silent encouragement before backing away, situating himself by one of the corners of the room.

There’s not much to see, really. Jake Griffin’s office had the standard makings of any other office: outdated desktops and files, stationery still left in their sealed packets. He plucks idly at one of the folders, tracing at the engraved _Griffin Consolidated_ by the top _—_

He freezes when he spots it, avoiding the temptation to rub at his eyes to make ascertain of what he’s seeing.

There, labelled neatly in block handwriting, the sticker half peeling off the spine: _Marcus Kane._

Releasing a shaky breath, he grabs at it, skimming at the contents. _Properties. Private holdings. Expenditure._

A whole _dossier_ on him, ranging from his school years to his time as a member of the council.

“Bell?” He can hear the frown in her voice, her footfalls echoing through the room as she approaches, resting her chin on his shoulder, “What are you looking at?”

It’s impossible, at this point, to keep from grinning, so he lets it show, wide and feral not entirely his own _—_ one reminiscent of the days back when he was someone else. _Something_ else, to the masses.

“I think,” he says, slow, weighing the words; sliding his finger down the edge of the folder before flipping it open with a single, fluid motion, “I’m looking at our ticket back to Arkadia.”

 

_**Day (502)** _

Bellamy’s aware that there is _some_ sort of irony to his current situation _—_ but it’s hard to care, really, when he’s dangling _mid-air_ with nothing but a piece of rope to hold him up.

Swearing, he winces at the scrape of brick against his knee before he manages to right himself, pulling up and planting his feet firmly against the wall.

There’s a sigh of relief right by his ear, punctuated by a crackle of static that makes him grit his teeth frustratedly, “Close shave.”

“I must be losing my touch,” he remarks, dry. A quick glance over at the cheap, plastic watch (purchased impulsively by the market just minutes ago) strapped to his wrist confirms that they have a whole minute before Monty disables the electronic locks, which means that they’re right on schedule. “Everything alright on your end?”

A beat before her voice comes back into focus, the chastisement in her words evident despite the garbled quality, “You’re the one hanging off the side of a building and you’re asking if _I’m_ okay?”

“What can I say, princess? I have my priorities in order.”

This time, he hears her smile. “Nerd.”

“It’s one my best qualities,” he quips, tightening his hold on the rope just as the lock by the windows flare green. _Monty’s signal._ “Standby, I’m going in.”

Lodging his foot by the edge of the window pane, he applies slight pressure, waiting. It gives easily under his weight, and he grabs onto the frame before swinging himself in, landing on his feet.

It’s the window to his office, if the bookshelves and piles and piles of documents stacked on the desk are any indication. He’s _disorganized_ , which is something that Bellamy didn’t count on, but it’s not like it’s going to affect his work here in any way. Shrugging, he grabs at the length of rope, giving it a sharp tug so it unravels from its coil around the grappling hook. “Princess?”

“On my way.” She manages, sounding a little breathless. “A minute, tops.”

Nodding, he secures the rope around the table leg instead, yanking on it experimentally. It holds firm, thankfully, and he makes sure to straighten it out just as he hears her draw up by the window, the heel of her boots loud against the cobblestones.

“Everything in place?”

“Yup,” he says, glancing over the ledge and grinning at the sight of the dark hood pulled over her shock of blonde hair, a few strands of red drifting free from her braid. “Time for you to scale your tower, princess.”

“For the last time,” she grumbles, sounding incredibly exasperated, “I didn’t grow up _here_ , okay? It’s not _funny_ when the context behind it is wrong.”

“If you say so.”

“I _know_ so.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” he teases, just as she emerges through the window, glaring, extending a leg out before easing herself onto the ground carefully.

She takes a cursory glance around the room then, hand braced at the knife strapped to her hip. “All clear?”

“Clear.” He confirms, winding up the rope before easing the window shut. “Nothing here except what looks like the remains of a fax machine that exploded all over the place.”

That pulls a snort out of her as she crosses the room, plucking at the phone by the desk. “Yeah, that’s a understatement.” she mutters, punching in a series of numbers before emitting a low curse under her breath, “Jesus, this isn’t even _cordless_.”

He shakes at his head at that, and in his best mock-sombre impression, “Cordless phones ruin the _feel_ of the room, Clarke.”

“You sound exactly like my mom.”

“It’s what I was going for. Except _—_ ”

She shushes him then, hitting at the loudspeaker button and flooding the room with noise. His breath catches at it, the phone ringing and _ringing—_

“Hello?”

A beat as he glances over at Clarke, worrying at his lip. It’s impossible to miss the tense set of her shoulders, the white-knuckled grip she has on the desk. But there’s determination in her stance, too; in the clench of her jaw and the furrow of her brow.

“ _Hello?_ ”

Bracing himself by the edge of the desk, he leans over, bringing himself closer to the receiver. “Long time no talk, Kane.”

The silence that descends this time seems to stretch on, nothing but the sound of his heavy breathing filling the air, labored and disbelieving all at once. (He can’t help but feel a little smug by it.)

“Cat got your tongue, Kane?” Clarke croons, clucking at her tongue in what he supposes passes as a sympathetic sound. “Don’t worry,” she continues, a small smile playing on her lips, “you don’t have to talk. Just listen.”

He chooses that exact moment to say something, which really only cements his belief that Marcus Kane is a contrary son of a bitch, “How did you get past Arkadian borders? I’ve established a _—_ ”

“We _really_ don’t care about answering your questions, Marcus.” He cuts in, smooth. (It had taken the combined efforts of _all_ of Skaikru to get them over, but it’s not something he’ll willingly divulge, especially not to _him._ ) “All you need to know is that we’re standing right here, in your _office,_ calling you from your desk phone. Surrounded by countless sensitive documents and prized artifacts, all within reach. And all very _easily_ destroyable.”

It’s a little noisier on his end, but Bellamy doesn’t miss his sharp intake of breath at that. Then, growling, “What do you both want?”

“Just to negotiate a deal that we believe would be favorable for _all_ parties.” Clarke says, nonchalant. It’s precisely the brand of breezy and unaffected they are aiming for, and he can’t help shooting her a thumbs-up at it. She rolls her eyes, but the edges of her lips are twitching ever so slightly. “Come home, Kane. _Alone._ We’re waiting.”

“And in case you get any funny ideas,” he adds, pleasant, “just know that I’m armed _and_ that I happen to have a nice little view of your doorstep. Anything _remotely_ out of the ordinary, and, well. You know me, don’t you, Kane? I’m a shoot first, ask later sort of guy.”

“You wouldn’t _dare—_ ”

“Tick tock, Kane.” Clarke interrupts, nails scraping against the tabletop in a single, jarring sound, “I wouldn’t test us, if I were you. We’ll be seeing you in fifteen minutes, or _you’ll_ be seeing smoke from all the way across town.”

Then, with a little flourish of her wrist, she slams the phone down.

There’s a tiny, awkward pause before he turns his gaze onto her, brow involuntarily rising up to his hairline. “Ominous.” He intones, grinning, “Don’t get me wrong, though. I liked it.”

“Good,” she mutters darkly, scowling, “I rehearsed it.”

He has to bite back a laugh at that, and he thinks he catches a fleeting smile on her part before she’s sliding his gun over, all business once more, “C’mon, Bell. It’s showtime.”

 

_**Day (502.5)** _

It’s surreal to be _finally_ looking Marcus Kane in the eye after more than a year of running.

He looks a little older, now _—_ grey flecking his temples and cheeks sunken; almost gaunt. It’s surprising, considering his wealth and position in Arkadia, but there’s only so much of Marcus Kane’s welfare that Bellamy can pretend to give a shit about.

Leaning back on his heels, he skirts a cursory, almost lazy glance over at him. “Long time no see, Chancellor,” he drawls, arching a brow over at him. “No, that’s not right,” he squints, feigning confusion, “it’s the Chancellor’s lapdog, the last time I checked.”

Kane, unfortunately, doesn’t rise to the bait, but it’s impossible to miss the clench of his jaw at that. (The sight of it is distinctly satisfying, to say the least.)

“No need to stand on ceremony,” Clarke simpers, tilting her chin over at the chair resting in the middle of the room. “Sit.”

He does, albeit stiffly, hands curling woodenly over the armrest. Every muscle in his body is held tense; ready to bolt at any given second. Still, the look in his eyes is calculative. Careful.

“You’re being awfully quiet,” Bellamy starts, working to keep his voice flat. _Bored._ “Cat still got your tongue, Kane?”

That finally prompts him to speak, at least. “Well, maybe I’m just wondering why two international fugitives have _willingly_ brought themselves in for slaughter,” he bites out, leaning forward on his elbows, “or maybe,” he says, voice taking on a vicious edge, “I’m considering how _easy_ it would be to sound an alarm and bring the entirety of the guard running to me. Even at the expense of whatever valuables are in this room.”

“You could do that,” Clarke frowns, nonchalant, her fingers twirling at the knife in her hands idly, “but I really wouldn’t recommend it. Not with what we have on you, _Marcus_.”

He flinches, despite his best attempt at a poker face. “You’re grappling at straws, Clarke.”

“You’d _wish_ I was grappling at straws by the time I’m _done_ with you,” she snarls, and the image of Kane practically _recoiling_ in his chair is enough to sustain him for the next year or so, probably.

Forcing back a laugh, Bellamy reaches for the folder they’ve stashed, dropping it onto the table before them with a pointed _thump._ “Now, correct me if I’m wrong here, Kane,” he says, clearing his throat, “but you joined the council eight years ago, am I right?”

“I wasn’t informed that this was a _inquisition_.”

“ _I_ wasn’t informed that you had a choice in this matter.” Clarke says, snide; her expression hardening with every arc of her knife, now a blur of motion between her fingers, “So answer the _goddamn_ question before things get ugly.”

His answering glare is resentful, but he speaks anyway. “Yes,” he says shortly, straightening in his seat. “So what?”

“Two years after, Jake Griffin was charged with a capital crime for embezzling from public funds.”

“I fail to see _how—_ ”

“Around the same time _you_ opened up a new account at Arkadia Banking Corporation under a pseudonym, _and_ deposited $75,000 right at the get go.” She cuts in, shaking. It takes everything in his willpower to keep from touching her, then, from comforting her the way he’s used to, “Which is fucking coincidental, considering that is the _exact_ sum that they charged my dad for taking.”

A beat, and he can practically _see_ Kane winding up for his counter-punch, sweat beading at his brow and hands clenching into fists _—_

“And before you go off on a little tangent about how it’s not _you,_ ” he manages, prowling forward, “I’d like to remind you that this is not the Ice Nation, in any way.”

He bristles at that, scoffing, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Clarke says, her voice dangerously soft, “that we keep electronic records.”

Wordlessly, Bellamy flicks the folder open, sliding the numerous surveillance shots out into the open. The photos are dark, grainy, the figure sometimes obscured by shadow _—_ but there he is, in plain sight. Kane, walking into the bank. Disappearing through a set of double doors. Coat drawn and head bent slightly as he makes his exit.

“The timing of these photos coincides with when the money was deposited,” he continues, crossing his arms over his chest. “Strange, isn’t it?” he prods, furrowing his brow in mock contemplation, “you think it’s something the council would be interested in? Or maybe the public?”

It’s the blow they needed, evidently, judging from the way Kane lurches up from his chair. “A few flimsy scraps isn’t enough to prove _anything,_ ” he hisses, drawing forward, “particularly when it’s coming from _you lot_.”

“No, but it’s enough for people to start talking,” Clarke retorts, chin jutting up as she meets his gaze _—_ unwavering and unmoving and goddamn _steel,_ “and that can’t be good now, is it? Your reputation is on the rocks as it is, considering your _failed_ attempts at corralling the gang situation in Arkadia.”

His moustache almost seems to quiver, at that, chest heaving _—_

“Let me save you the trouble of a full-blown meltdown, Kane.” Bellamy interjects, sliding his hands into his pockets as he circles him; languid and predatory and measured, all at once, “Just fulfill our demands, and we’ll leave you on your way.”

A breathless, too-long pause passes before he gives in, shoulders slumping as he asks, brusque, “What are they?”

“Simple,” Clarke says, shrugging, “first of all, you declare us dead.”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“There are two bodies in your morgue currently that could pass off as us. To the rest of the world, Bellamy and Clarke are dead. Gone. Kaput. Whatever other euphemism there is for us being buried six feet under. Got that?”

“I’m _—_ ”

“Second of all,” he says, ticking off his fingers, “I heard you have a nice little property just outside of Arkadia. Unoccupied, small. A little cottage, with miles of land around it.”

The expression gracing Kane’s face now is best described as pained. “What about it?”

“I think it’ll be a nice little place for Clarke to get some painting done, don’t you?” he asks, nonchalant, cocking his head in question. “You’ll give it to us.” He manages, flashing his teeth, “And if you have any ideas about bringing yourself _or_ the Chancellor up to come visit, I will kill you where you stand. Got that?”

All the color seems to drain from his face at the declaration, his gaze going to the knife Clarke is _still_ toying with. The smile she shoots him is saccharine sweet, belying the gravel in her voice when she tells him, “Just remember, Kane. Try anything _funny_ and the contents of this folder go viral. You, my mother and _everything_ you have worked for goes up in smoke.”

The knife buries itself with a sharp _thunk_ at the end of his desk, then, just short of where Kane’s fingers had been resting _—_ his sharp inhalation of breath loud in the quiet of the room as he backs up a few steps, jaw set.

(It’s, possibly, the most _vindicated_ Bellamy has ever felt.)

Smirking, he reaches over, yanking the knife free. “One last thing, Kane.”

The look he receives in return is nothing short of venomous, but it’s impossible to miss the resignation in his stance, the sag of his shoulders. “What?”

“We’re going to need a car.”

 

_**Day (502.5)** _

Bellamy doesn’t fully relax until the familiar exterior of the Dropship comes into view _—_ sunlight glinting off the metal tiles and casting shadows against the dented walls.

It looked like something that had been kicked one too many times and never recovered. It looked like _home_. (Or something that had once been _his_ , at any rate.)

Pulling the car into a standstill, he turns over to look at her _—_ at the familiar lines of her face, the swoops and curves and angles that he could have traced in his sleep.

( _He could navigate the planes of her in the dark_ , he thinks. _In every universe and reality where she existed._ It’s what it meant to make a home of someone, really: to know every single one of their corners and crevices. To know them in the dark, and in the quiet, and in the chaos. Home, for him, was nothing but Clarke Griffin’s hand in his, their fingers intertwined. Never letting go.)

“I never thought I’d see it again,” he murmurs, staring out at the building looming overhead. It’s a little worse for wear _—_ the coats of paint slathered on the roof already peeling, the insignia painted by the door smudged and nearly unrecognizable. But he _knows_ the faces of the kids playing by the field, recognizes Rhys’s gruff baritone and Kayden’s bright, ringing laugh and Holland’s shuffling gait. “But things aren’t that all different, strangely.”

That pulls a smile out of her, soft. “Some things are,” she teases, poking at his thigh. He catches at her hand before she can pull away, weaving their fingers together.

“Some things are,” he agrees, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. Outside, a crowd is gathering _—_ some looking upon them with recognition, some with apprehension. He manages a appeasing nod, reaching for the door handle _—_

Just as his gaze lands on the familiar figures hovering by the fourth floor window.

“Bell?”

It’s Clarke’s voice by his ear, but he can see Monty shaping the words, anyway, Miller’s face jerking in surprise. There’s a beat where they’re just _looking_ at each other, separated by nothing but mere miles and a sheet of glass _—_

Then Miller’s pounding down the stairs, his booming laugh echoing through the clearing, Monty following close behind _—_

“Took you long enough, you son of a _bitch_.” Miller calls out, grinning, and the warmth that surges through him feels like it’s enough to overpower the sun, somehow.

He can’t help his laugh at that, the sound choked. Giving one last reassuring squeeze to her palm, he yanks at the car door, stepping out into the open. There’s a gun strapped to Miller’s back, a line of soot trailing Monty’s chin, and it feels like they’re sixteen and fucking _stupid_ again, doing whatever they could to keep each other afloat. The first family he ever found, all on his own.

This time, she’s the one who reaches for him, sliding their fingers together. It feels like the answer to a question that she already _knows,_ really, but he says it anyway. “Some things don’t,” he manages, voice breaking on the word, and she doesn’t any further explanation before she’s squeezing at his palm, laughing.

“Yeah,” Clarke tells him, shaking at her head ruefully; fondness and devotion and all _love,_ “some things don’t.”

He leans over, then, dropping a kiss against the tilt of her mouth. “C’mon princess,” he grins, tugging her along; towards Monty and Miller and everything their future now held, “let me show you around.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments feed me, so drop me a line if you liked this!


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